For many who view an anti-establishment spirit as an integral part of rock'n'roll, arena gigs will always be tainted somewhat by a corporate stain. But the 02 Arena is where Led Zeppelin chose to make their much heralded comeback in 2007 and tonight it's where AC/DC take to the stage for their first UK gig in six years. Truth be known there are some bands that just wouldn't translate as well in a smaller venue. If ever a rock'n'roll band were made for arenas, it's AC/DC.

The unreconstructed Aussie rockers remain resolutely un-PC. Or Mac. Their songs are unapologetic celebrations of booze'n'birds, and they have steadfastly refused to give in to the digital revolution and sell their songs through iTunes, as they don't want people to download individual tracks. "We don't make singles, we make albums," argues guitarist Angus Young. It's not a policy which seems to have harmed them. Last year's Black Ice, their first studio album since the millennium, has sold over seven million copies.

There's always been a slight cartoon aspect to AC/DC, and the show opens with a cartoon of Young as a devilish train driver, wrestling with two scantily clad female controllers. Then, in a shower of pyrotechnics, a 25ft high steam engine bursts through the screen and Young's first signature totemic chord announces the opening track, "Rock'n'Roll Train". They have never been ones for subtlety.

"We're going to do some old stuff and some new stuff and the party starts right here... it's rock'n'roll!" exclaims singer Brian Johnson after the first track. Young is the focus of attention throughout, his every riff and inimitable rocking duck walk eliciting roars from the crowd. At 54, he still dresses as a schoolboy, complete with cap and short trousers, and as his peers become a little cranky, he simply becomes more like little Jimmy Krankie. Almost three decades since joining the band, Johnson still looks like a London cab driver who can't quite believe his luck, gurning and grimacing, egging Young on. Both boast the zest of men half their age. Malcolm Young and Cliff Williams remain close to drummer Phil Rudd, in the shadow of their speaker stacks, only coming forward to supply backing vocals.

For two hours they bounce between greatest hits and tracks from Black Ice, which for most bands would highlight either how far they've progressed or, more likely, are living on past glories. With AC/DC it only shows how resolutely they've stuck to their guns. The songs remain the same, although it is those from their career highlight Back in Black which bring the most cheers. The most ridiculous moment is when Johnson declares, before "Whole Lotta Rosie", that "We brought our girlfriend with us!" and suddenly there is a frightening amount of Rosie - a 40ft high curvaceous blow-up doll with outsize breasts, riding the AC/DC train like a Beryl Cook heavy rock nightmare. It's kiss-me-quick rock'n'roll.

By this stage Young is stripped to the waist and has mooned the crowd in his AC/DC branded underwear. Then he writhes around on his back on a rising podium while playing another solo. One Young fan, seeing me taking notes shouts "You hear that? That's him sending a message out to Jimmy Page that he's the number one!"

That is debatable. What isn't is that Young and his band are still, as ever, ready to rock. And for that you can't help but salute him. They're a hugely refreshing reminder of how much fun rock'n'roll can be. May they stay forever young.

Whereas AC/DC have managed to avoid becoming a novelty act, the Prodigy started life as one. Born out of the rave scene at the start of the 90s, they first announced themselves with the cartoon advert sampling "Charly", before Liam Howlett crafted a trademark sound built on breakneck breakbeats punctuated by a booming subterranean bass, and repetitious incendiary soundbites such as "I'm the firestarter, twisted firestarter". Which took them to No 1, made an unlikely star of Keith Flint and had the Mail on Sunday exclaiming "Ban this sick fire record".

After a couple of wilderness years of musical differences and ill-advised solo projects, February's Invaders Must Die (the band's fifth studio album) was, if not quite a return to form, at least a return to their signature sound, and went straight to No 1. Their core audience is more Max Power than Top Gear, but like AC/DC they now appeal across the ages. There's plenty of old ravers here tonight, reliving a bit of their youth, but plenty of new rave kids young enough to have been conceived during the second summer of love in 1988.

They may now be on the dark side of 40, but Flint and Maxim Reality (fourth member Leeroy Thornhill is no longer with the band) are still less frontmen, more demonic pied pipers of chaos; firestarters who whip the crowd up into a frenzy. Not that the crowd need much encouragement. From the first note, the whole floor bounces, thousands of bodies writhing as one. When the opening bars of "Breathe" bounce around the arena, the temperature rises even further and the bass seems to drop even lower, thudding through the chest. Like AC/DC, the Prodigy know how to manage the balance of old and new, dotting tracks from Invaders Must Die among the greatest hits, and where they don't quite elicit the same response, Flint and Maxim are there to spur the crowd on. It's a much more intense experience than the Aussie rockers, pure gurning hedonism in place of the anthemic collective singalong; a relentless hour and a half, at the end of which half the crowd is drenched and drained.

The one criticism you could level at both is it does get a bit samey, leaving you longing for a bit of subtlety. But then you don't come to arenas for subtlety.